Never Fool a Duke Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Notes

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Prologue

  There are two sides to every story. Two sides to a coin. There are even, when one thinks on it, two sides to midnight.

  Mr Waldo Havisham had never given this last fact any contemplation until the moment that his daughter decided to make her debut into the world. He had just poured himself a large measure of brandy and was about to light a cheroot so that he might celebrate—in a most masculine manner—the birth of his first child, when a knock came upon the door.

  "Mr Havisham, it is your wife," the chambermaid whispered nervously, as Waldo answered her knock.

  For a moment, Waldo stilled, as he experienced the peculiar sensation of time itself halting. Childbirth was a dangerous thing, and while moments ago, he might have been celebrating his son's birth, there was every possibility that he might now be confronted with his wife's death.

  "What about my wife?" he queried, resisting the urge to take the chambermaid by the shoulders and shake her until she answered. Good staff were hard to find, and even more so when one was entrenched in the wilds of the Outer Hebrides.

  "The accoucheur," the maid replied, her tongue tripping slightly on the unfamiliar word, "believes that Mrs Havisham is still labouring."

  "And what on earth does that mean?" Waldo, who was near apoplectic with worry, did not have the mental capacity to try and decipher the young woman's announcement.

  "It means twins, Mr Havisham."

  Twins? Waldo had not contemplated that his virility might be so great that he could sire two children in one night, but it must be so if a second child was on the way.

  Feeling rather pleased with himself, Waldo bid the maid to take her leave, but as she turned on her heel, the clocks of the house began to strike the hour, their chimes ringing merrily through the halls.

  "Gracious," Waldo paused, "It's midnight."

  "Haud Hogmanay," the maid whispered.

  "Ne' rday," Waldo replied, without missing a beat.

  The last day of December had brought Waldo a son, and soon he would learn that the first day of the New Year had brought him a daughter. For twins to be born on separate days was rare, though not unheard of, but for a pair to be born a year apart was nothing short of unusual. Which worried Waldo, for he had spent a lifetime battling the unusual circumstances into which he had been born.

  Waldo was the heir apparent to a Barony by writ, which, thanks to its antiquity, was eligible to pass through the female line, unlike newer titles which were created by patent and could only be inherited by male progeny.

  The current holder of the Baronetcy of Hebrides was Waldo's Aunt Phoebe, a woman so eccentric that Waldo often wondered if it might not have been better for the title to have fallen into abeyance, rather than fall into her hands.

  Lady Havisham had spent years frittering away the estate's meagre income on exploring the world. Then, to add insult to the injury of her ancestral line, when she had returned from her travels, she had invited artists, bohemians, and bluestockings to take up residence in Hebrides Hall, which was located on the largest of the archipelago's isles, Lewis and Harris. During the summer months, when the season finished, Hebrides Hall was a veritable den of iniquity, as bohemians and egalitarians summered there, at Aunt Phoebe's invitation.

  Waldo's mother, a paragon of grace, virtue, and sensibility, had oft despaired to her young son about the eccentricities of his aunt. Thus, when she and his father—a barrister by trade—had died after a nasty carriage accident on the road to Fort Augustus, and Waldo had found himself entrusted into his aunt's care, he had been understandably horrified.

  After the banal gentility in which he had lived in Edinburgh, Waldo found Hebrides Hall, and the wilds of the island overwhelming.

  His aunt, who was constantly shadowed by an irritable terrier named Fifi, had decorated the ancestral home with obscure paintings, exotic trinkets, and the skins—head included—of several strange animals. Even the servants of Hebrides Hall were peculiar. Aunt Phoebe's maid Dorothy was said to have "the sight", and plagued Waldo with her visions of imminent doom - visions which usually included Waldo meeting an imminent and tragic end.

  At the age of eight, Waldo was granted an escape, when he was sent down to Eton to board. His relief at living amongst his peers was countered by the startling revelation that he wasn't as like them as he had assumed.

  "Imagine being the heir to a woman!"

  "It's nearly as bad as being the son of a barrister."

  "Oh, did we make you cry, Lady Waldo?"

  In Scotland, Waldo had always been sure of his status as "better", but down in England, amongst the sons of dukes, earls, and viscounts, he became acutely aware that this status depended upon to whom it was he was comparing himself.

  He had never thought much on money or power, but in Eton, both these things were at the forefront of everyone's mind. Who was in line to the highest title? Whose father had amassed the most wealth? These two questions—and their answers—dictated the pecking order of life within the school, and Waldo soon discovered that he was perilously close to the bottom rung of that ladder.

  As a practical child, Waldo knew that there was little he could do at present to remedy such matters, but he began in earnest to plot how he might—as an adult—overcome the difficult circumstances of his birth.

  He needed money—of which the estate in the Hebrides provided little—and he needed power. In order to attain both these things, there was the only path that Waldo could take; that of the politician.

  For the duration of his schooling, Waldo endeavoured to study hard and ingratiate himself with the right people. He increased his efforts doubly once he entered Oxford. By the time Waldo had finished reading the Liberal Arts, he had become an expert tuft-hunter and considered some of England's finest as his close companions.

  "I don't understand the need to take up a position in Whitehall," Aunt Phoebe grumbled when Waldo returned to Hebrides Hall to pack for the final time.

  "The need, my dear aunt," Waldo replied shortly, "Arises from your blatant mismanagement of my inheritance. If I am to accrue any fortune, I must do it myself."

  "Perhaps not, dear nephew. When I was in In-jaaa—" Aunt Phoebe began, but Waldo cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  "I could not give tuppence about your time in India, Aunt," Waldo interjected, "In fact, I never want to hear you mention India again."

  "Suit yourself," Aunt Phoebe huffed, and the sound of the elderly Fifi's growling accompanied Waldo out the door.

  The beginning of Waldo's career in politics coincided with the outbreak of revolution in France. As Waldo rose through the ranks of Whitehall, his diplomacy and tact—which mostly involved a lot of boot-licking—became noted.

  "We need a man in Vienna, Havisham," Lord Ascot bellowed one morning to a beleaguered Waldo, "How's your French?"

  "Exemplary, my lord," Waldo replied, most earnestly.

  "Then pack your trunk, you'll sail in the morning."

  Vienna was filled with aristocratic émigrés from Paris, all eager to find a way to overthrow the hoards of peasants who had so violently upset the status quo in the Kingdom of France. Waldo, equally as eager to play his part on behalf of Britannia and her King, threw himself into his wo
rk, only to fall at the first hurdle.

  His French, which he had previously thought exemplary, was not up to scratch. In fact, it was nonexistent.

  To remedy the matter, Waldo tried several approaches. He tried speaking very, very slowly, to better help the French understand his English. When that didn't work, Waldo tried speaking slowly and loudly, his voice often rising so high, that on numerous occasions he was accused of shouting.

  Despite all his efforts at translation, the perfidious French still refused to understand him, not even when he added wild gesticulations to his words.

  Waldo began to fear that his career as a diplomatic envoy would come to an abrupt end before it had even begun, until the night that he met Georgette.

  The daughter of an impoverished comte, Georgette was elegant, beautiful, and—more importantly—bilingual. A hasty marriage was arranged, and within a week of making their nuptials, Georgette was assisting Waldo with making inroads with the locals. Waldo proudly arranged British military assistance for The Battle of Valmy—where the Austrians tried to overthrow the French regime and have Louis XVI restored to his throne.

  Of course, it failed miserably, and the following year the king and his wife, Marie Antoinette, were beheaded. However, Waldo had no further care for that ghastly business, for he had already returned to England's shores with his beautiful bride.

  And better yet, he had returned as a success.

  True, many soldiers had perished in the battle, but what were a few lost men when Whitehall was so grateful to Waldo for having had Britannia play her part? So pleased were they that they awarded him a tidy sum for his great efforts. With his new fortune, Waldo purchased a seat in Parliament from one of the rotten boroughs, and the lease on a grand house on Grosvenor Square, where he and Georgette set up home.

  After many years of longing, he had finally achieved both money and power.

  Just before summer, Aunt Phoebe sent word that she would be taking a tour of Ireland for a few months and that Waldo was welcome to bring his new bride to Hebrides Hall. As her letter coincided with Georgette's announcement that she was increasing, Waldo decided to take his wife back to Scotland, so that his son—for it would be a boy—might be born on the estate he would one day inherit.

  Now, here Waldo was, in Hebrides Hall, with the son he hoped would achieve even greater things than he, a daughter he had not expected, and a vague hope that Aunt Phoebe might be kidnapped by Fenians and never return.

  Sadly, Aunt Phoebe was not spirited away by rebel-rousing Irishmen, but even her return to Hebrides Hall could not distract Waldo from his newfound happiness; Sebastian.

  His son was a bonny babe, with eyes so navy-blue that they could almost be mistaken for violet. His sister was similarly blessed, which was lucky, for it saved Waldo and Georgette the trouble of having to think of a name for the girl.

  As babies, swaddled in blankets, it was almost impossible to tell Sebastian and Violet apart; both dressed in muslin gowns and caps upon their curly heads they were completely identical. After much confusion, Dorothy, in all her infinite wisdom, suggested dressing one in gowns trimmed with blue edging—a colour which was believed to ward off evil spirits—in order to tell them apart.

  Waldo agreed, and while he did not believe in silly superstitions, he still made it clear that it was Sebastian who should wear the blue-trimmed gowns—just in case.

  It was not that Waldo did not love his daughter; he did—it was just that he loved his son more. Sebastian was a being whom Waldo could mould to his own desire and who would proudly carry on the family name. While Violet...well, she might one day make a good marriage.

  Waldo's preference was not noted by the twins in their early years, as they enjoyed an idyllic childhood roaming the wilds of the island. Neither seemed to notice that there was one gaping difference between them, nor, for a time, did they realise that they were actually two separate beings, so attached were they.

  It was only when the time came to educate the pair that it dawned on Sebastian and Violet that their futures might take very different paths.

  "Why can't I learn Latin?" Violet queried, on the morning of Sebastian's first lesson in the Classics.

  "Latin is for boys, chérie," Georgette replied brusquely.

  "But I want to learn Latin," Violet replied, with a petulant lip.

  "Nobody wants to learn Latin," her mother clarified, with a faint shiver, "But Sebastian has to so that he will be at an advantage when he goes to Eton."

  Eton?

  Violet exchanged a startled glance with her brother across the breakfast table. No one had ever mentioned that they might one day be separated.

  "I don't want to go to Eton," Sebastian spluttered, dropping his silver spoon with a clatter.

  "Well, you have to," Georgette's patience was beginning to wear thin; she was not the maternal type and found time spent with her offspring exceedingly trying. "You will go to Eton, then to Oxford like your Papa, and then you will take up a position in government before you get married and inherit the title."

  Again, Sebastian and Violet glanced at each other in surprise. How was it that Sebastian's life had been planned out so thoroughly without their knowledge or agreement? Did their parents not know that the twins had made plans of their own?

  "I am not going to Eton, or Oxford, Mama," Sebastian replied, sticking out his chest importantly, "I will stay in Hebrides Hall and marry Violet."

  To the twin's surprise, no admonishments sprung forth from their mother's lips. Instead, an amused giggle sounded out across the dining room.

  "Ah," Georgette replied, bestowing a rare glance of affection upon her children, "I am afraid that you two getting married is not allowed. Besides, when the time comes, I can guarantee that neither of you will want to marry the other."

  Not allowed? Violet gulped; if she was not allowed to marry Sebastian, then how on earth would she remain at Hebrides Hall? The wind-battered island, with its wild hills and turbulent seas, was the only place she wished to live.

  "Then I will marry Papa," Violet shrugged, avoiding Sebastian's wounded gaze.

  "I definitely think you won't want that, when the time comes," Waldo snorted, glancing up from his newspaper. "Now, run along, you two. Your mama and I want to finish our breakfast in peace."

  Sebastian and Violet fled the table, muttering despairingly to each other about the injustice of life. But, as most children of five are wont to do, they forgot their troubles within a day, and there was no more talk of Eton from their parents, until the following year.

  Anyone passing by Hebrides Hall, the night before Sebastian was set to depart, would have been forgiven for thinking that a dreadful murder was taking place, such were the howls.

  "I won't go," Sebastian roared, tears streaking his porcelain face.

  "I won't let him go," Violet added, her face flushed with agony.

  "Neither of you has any say in this," Waldo answered, his shout the loudest of the three, "And if you don't stop your tantrum, I won't allow Sebastian to return at the end of Michaelmas."

  The twins abruptly halted their protest, their despondent sniffs the only sound now filling the room.

  "Good," Waldo gave the pair a stern glance, "Now, off to bed with you."

  The children scurried to their bedroom, where the nursery maid attempted to soothe their battered souls as she dressed them for bed.

  "You'll be reunited by the end of the year," Agnes chirped, as she tucked them under the coverlets.

  "But that's forever away..."

  "Tosh, it's just two months. Now, sleep."

  The door clicked shut behind the nurse but within minutes it was opened again, and Dorothy, bearing glasses of warm milk spiced with nutmeg and ginger, appeared.

  "What's this I hear about my two favourite children causing a ruckus?" she asked, placing the candle in her hand down upon the dresser, before handing the twins their drinks.

  "They want to separate us," Violet whispered, before taking a sip of h
er milk.

  "Separate you two?" Dorothy chuckled, "They might separate you by land and sea, but mark my words, you two will be joined forever."

  "Really?"

  "I'm quite certain."

  "What do you see, Dorothy?" Sebastian, a great believer in Dorothy's supposed gift of the "sight", asked.

  The old woman frowned as she gathered her shawl tighter around her dumpy form. Her eyes—Skye-blue, as the Scots called it—glanced from one twin to the other.

  "I see two bairns, a boy and a girl, different in some ways, but so alike that they could be each other's mirror image," she said, before adding with a wink, "And I see mischief. Now to sleep with ye."

  The door closed behind Dorothy, but as she had left her candle, light remained. Violet glanced at her brother, who was chewing his lip thoughtfully.

  "That's it," he said, clicking his fingers as an idea manifested itself within.

  "What's it?" Violet stifled a yawn; spiced milk never failed to send her to sleep—how clever Dorothy was.

  "You shall go to Eton in my stead!"

  The milk had lulled Violet into such a sleepy stupor, that she was too confused to offer her brother a reply.

  "You shall dress as me," Sebastian continued, taking her silence for assent, "Then, once they see at Eton how brilliant you are, they'll allow you to stay and I can join you. We'll be together forever, then."

  Sebastian had always been the leader of their duo; where Violet was quiet and shy, Sebastian was outgoing and loud. Where Violet was nervous and hesitant, Sebastian was determined and impulsive.

  Her brother was such a force de jour, that even when Violet's common sense protested, she found herself being swayed by his enthusiasm, which is precisely what happened on this occasion.

  "If you think it will work..?" she offered, hesitantly.

  "Oh, I'm certain it will," Sebastian's eyes danced merrily, before their spark dulled somewhat, as they rested on Violet's head.

  "There's just one thing..."

  "Oh?"

  "Your hair."

  It was a testament to Violet's love for her brother that she did not weep that night, as he cut her hair with scissors stolen from the kitchens below. Even the next day, as she bid goodbye to her parents—dressed in Sebastian's clothes—she did not allow herself to cry.